


your little spoon

by xombiebean



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Androids, Body Image, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fuck David Cage, Ken Doll Android Anatomy | Androids Have No Genitalia (Detroit: Become Human), Kink Negotiation, M/M, Not Beta Read, Size Difference, Size Kink, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-20 01:09:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17012664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xombiebean/pseuds/xombiebean
Summary: A bark sounds out from inside the house, and then the door is opening, and there is Hank, clad in sweatpants and a well-loved t-shirt. The print on the front of it is faded, but Connor can make out the words “SHRIMP HEAVEN NOW.” Hank’s got his silver-grey hair tied up in a messy bun on the top of his head. Connor likes the look of him immediately. There is something soft about him that makes Connor want to fall into him.





	your little spoon

**Author's Note:**

> [gingerly sets this fic down as an offering to the fandom altar] [dives back into my blanket knoll]
> 
> title from your best american girl by mitski. goodness, i adore her.
> 
> i’m don’t even...really go here? like, fuck david cage. i just love a good size difference. connor and his big gruff n tuff boy hank. and robots. i love robots so much don’t @ me thank y ou.
> 
> look, i just wanted to write hank rawing connor, but then...uh. this happened.
> 
> this fic is set in some nebulous alt universe where hank and connor don’t meet through the dpd.
> 
> potential tw for hank's body + weight issues.

“if I could, I’d be your little spoon

and kiss your fingers forevermore”

 _your best american girl_ by mitski

 

A notification pops up on the edge of his sight line, and he almost ignores it. Tonight is not optimal for a hookup, given that he starts his new job tomorrow, and yet . . . and yet it has been so very long since someone has touched him. He does not need it, because there is very little he actually needs, but he wants it. Markus’s voice plays in his internal processor, telling him that wanting is at the very core of being core of being human. So he cues up the notification: a message from a hookup app for both humans and androids. It reads:

_sweetheart, what’s the catch?_

His eyebrows draw together in consternation and confusion—micro-expressions, he’s working on them. He shoots back a message: _I was not aware there was a catch? My goal is to find a suitable partner and engage in intercourse._

Three blinking dots appear, and then disappear, and then appear again. While the man messaging him figures out how to reply, Connor re-examines the man’s profile. Hank, fifty-three years old, human. His mouth drops down as he looks through the photos. The man is overweight. His chest is covered with thick grey hair, and a large tattoo peeks through. Floral tattoos adorn his shoulders. He looks so very, very large. In one photo, his big hand gently cups his penis through his sweatpants; the image is tantalizing, much more so than if he had stripped entirely and taken a photo of his nude form. Connor is learning to appreciate the subtleties. Hank’s penis looks to be much larger than the average human’s. Connor longs to hold it, feel the weight of it in his palm, taste it with his oral sensory receptors. He wants to find out how heavy the weight of Hank’s body feels blanketing his own.

A message comes through from Hank: _jesus, kid, don’t beat around the bush. give it to me straight._

Sent at 8:07 PM, from Connor:

_I believe I just did. However, if you are looking for “straight,” I may not be what you are looking for._

 

Received at 8:08 PM, from Hank:

_it’s an expression._

Connor’s LED whirls to yellow in annoyance. He sends back a terse, unimpressed message: _I am aware._

Received at 8:10 PM, from Hank:

_right. well. not to sound like a dirty old man, but what’s a cute little twink like you doing swiping on a shrek-looking fucker like me?_

Sent at 8:11 PM, from Connor:

_I do not know if your primary goal is to denigrate yourself or my taste in sexual partners. Either way, it is an odd flirting technique._

Received at 8:11 PM, from Hank:

_who said i was flirting?_

Connor’s LED flashes red briefly. _I do not appreciate being mocked. Good night._

Received at 8:12 PM, from Hank:

_wait!_

Connor glowered at nothing, fuming in his empty apartment. He pulled a coin from his pocket and flipped it, letting it dance along his fingers as he waited for Hank to tell him what he wanted, although Connor was unsure why he had not yet already unmatched with him.

 

Received at 8:13 PM, from Hank:

_look, kid. it’s been a long time since i’ve done this. and i’m not quite sure what you’re getting out of this, because i’m me and you’re you. But_

Received at 8:14 PM, from Hank:

_christ, i’m so bad at this._

Received at 8:14 PM, from Hank:

_i’m sorry. i’m an asshole._

Received at 8:14 PM, from Hank:

_i’m not trying to mock you. i’m just . . . rusty. sorry._

Sent at 8:15 PM, from Connor:

 _Okay_.

 

Received at 8:15 PM, from Hank:

_okay?_

Sent at 8:16 PM, from Connor:

_I accept your apology._

Received at 8:16 PM, from Hank:

_thank you?_

Sent at 8:16 PM, from Connor:

_you are welcome._

Received at 8:17 PM, from Hank:

_so i guess this is where i fuck off._

Sent at 8:17 PM, from Connor:

_You don’t have to._

Received at 8:17 PM, from Hank:

_i don’t?_

Sent at 8:17 PM, from Connor:

_No._

Received at 8:19 PM, from Hank:

_is that because uhhhh you wanna….you know?_

Sent at 8:19 PM, from Connor:

_If you are asking if I want to engage to engage in intercourse with you, the answer is yes. Our kinks are compatible; I find your body pleasing; and, despite your attempts to insult me, you do not seem to be fazed by the idea of an android sexual partner._

Received at 8:23 PM, from Hank:

_jesus, kid._

Sent at 8:23 PM, from Connor:

_Is that because you have previous experience with android sexual partners?_

Received at 8:24 PM, from Hank:

_fuck._

Received at 8:27 PM, from Hank:

_uhhh no. it’s been a while for me, and the last time i uh fucked around with someone was before androids became deviant. i didn’t . . . it didn’t feel right to mess around with someone who couldn’t consent._

Sent at 8:27 PM, from Connor:

_I understand._

Three blinking dots appear and then disappear. Connor waits patiently for the man to formulate his thoughts and send them, but nothing comes. _Call me_ , Connor texts.

 

Received at 8:31 PM, from Hank:

_what?_

Sent at 8:23 PM, from Connor:

_Given your reluctance, I doubt a face-to-face meeting will produce good results. It will be easier for me to gauge our sexual chemistry if we speak on the phone, and it will save unnecessary travel time if either of us feel disinclined to take this further._

 

An incoming call, with an unfamiliar phone number. Connor answers.

“Hello,” he says.

“Hey kid,” says Hank. His voice is low and rough, and it sends his processors spinning wildly. It is better that he could have imagined.

“Your voice,” Connor blurts out.

“What about it?” Hank sounds dryly amused, and Connor’s LED lights up the night, spinning yellow, yellow, yellow.

“I like it.”

“Thanks. So . . . was there something you wanted to talk about? Or did ya wanna just shoot the shit?”

The cursing echoes in his programming, phantom remnants of his software constrictions itching.

“I thought we might discuss our sexual interests and past experiences, if you were amenable.”

Hank laughs, and it bounces along Connor’s circuitry, sending a pleasant jolt up his spine. “And here I thought you were gonna ask me what I’m wearing.”

Oh. _Oh._

“That—” Connor says, his voice box erupting into static. He gathers himself. “That is also acceptable.”

“Acceptable, huh?” Hank says. There is a difference between hearing his voice and reading his words—his arch, sardonic tone of voice, drawing you in so that you’re in on the joke. “Why don’t we see if we can ramp it up a little, huh?”

“I . . . would not be opposed to that,” Connor admits, dredging the words up from somewhere deep inside him.

Hank hums and it lights up his sensors. “Sweetheart, I’m gonna need a little more than that.”

“Yes,” Connor says immediately. “Yes, I—I w-would like you to describe what you are wearing.”

“Oh is that all?”

“I also would like you to continue using endearments. Not—not ‘kid,’ but sweetheart is . . . effective.” he does not say, it makes me feel like something precious.

“All right, sugar,” Hank says, and he sounds almost _fond_.

“What are you wearing?” Connor asks. The question had not occurred to him until Hank asked it, but now the idea has taken hold, and the need to know the answer is urgent.

Hank barks out a laugh, a real one, and deep one from his diaphragm. Connor finds he likes Hank’s laughs best when startled from him, these ungainly rusty sounds. “Sorry to disappoint,” he says, “but I’ve got on a t-shirt and sweats. Oh, and fuzzy socks. My coworker gave them to me. Hope that’s not too sexy for ya.” Connor recognizes the last sentiment as sarcasm, and the corners of his mouth twitch upward.

“Careful,” he cautions. “Thinking about you wearing fuzzy socks might make me overheat.”

“Please tell me I didn’t match with the one android with a foot fetish,” Hank groans jokingly.

“I would not presume to make massive generalizations about other androids’ sexual interests,” Connor says primly, startling a huff of amusement from Hank. “I should tell you, however, that I do not possess genitalia.”

“So what’s good for you?”

“I like . . . being touched.” the words hang in the air between them, and Connor’s light turns red when Hank does not respond. “Hank?” he ventures.

“Yeah, sorry,” he groans. “Sorry, I just—I was torn between calling you a wild thing, but I was kinda . . . mostly just waiting for more.”

“I like being touched. What more is there?”

“I don’t know—orgasms, maybe?”

“Oh!” How silly of Connor to forget. “I like to help my partners achieve orgasm.” Several partners, in the past, have complimented Connor on this.

“Kid—”

“I do not—”

“Sorry. But I meant your orgasms. What makes you come?”

Blank confusion. “I do not understand.”

“It’s not a hard question.”

“Hank, I—I cannot achieve orgasm.”

“Cannot? Or have not?”

“Both.”

“Are you fucking telling me that androids can’t fucking come”

“No! But I'm a prototype that was discontinued, and as such, it's difficult for me to find others whom I can ask. I do not know if the ability to reach sexual completion was programmed into me.”

“Oh sweetheart,” Hank says, and Connor bristles at the pity in his voice.

“It is fine. Orgasming is unnecessary. Sexual acts still feel pleasurable to me.”

“Of course, I didn’t—”

“I am not defective because I cannot orgasm.” 

“Look, you put a lot of heavy kinks on your list, and I just . . . want to make sure they’re there because you like them, not because you feel like have to—god, I sound so fucking patronizing. It’s not like I’m your daddy or something. We don’t even know each other. I’m just . . . some random fucking guy you just met, who making a really fucking bad first impression. I bet you’ve already thought all this shit through, and I’m just being a royal fuck-up over here.”

“I don’t . . . .” Connor’s voice is very small and his LED is a steady gleaming red glittering in the fading light of day.

For once, Hank is silent, and all Connor can make out is his breathing. He is waiting, Connor realizes. He is waiting for Connor to finish his thought. But Connor doesn’t know how that thought finishes. There is too much swirling around in his processors, too many protocols that are being reframed and rewritten by their conversation. It is too much. It is all too much. It is a tidal wave of new knowledge slamming into him, leveling him. He is—cracking. He is—he is—he is—

“Connor?” Hank says. Connor is melting under the rich textures of his voice.

He realizes, suddenly, that five minutes and thirteen seconds passed between him trailing off and Hank uttering his name. He . . . did not expect the gruff man to wait for so long. “Can I come over?” he blurts out.

Static and silence echo between them. Is Hank breathing? Connor cannot hear his breaths. Did he cause a heart attack? Humans are fragile things, but then again, so are androids. 

Hank clears his throat, and when the words finally make it out, they’re rough, scoured by uncertainty. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“Not to—to engage in intercourse,” Connor says quickly, his voice glitching from the rush of nervousness inside of him. “Perhaps you might like to—that is, we might engage in some platonic physical intimacy.” 

Hank exhales roughly and takes a beat to parse that. Connor is learning his social cues. Humans, he has found, take time to process, just as androids do, although humans are inordinately slower. “What kind of physical intimacy are we talking here?” he says at last.

“Hugging,” Connor says. “Perhaps…cuddling. We could watch a movie.” Humans do that. They sit on a couch tangled together in an intimate embrace and watch movies.

There’s a snort. And then a chuckle. “Connor, are you saying you want to Netflix and _chill_?”

“Yes that is—” He takes a moment to look up the phrase and his LED beats yellow and then, briefly, red. “No, that phrase is code for sex. That is the opposite of what I am suggesting.”

“Just messing with you, Con. Yeah, sure. Come on over. I’ll text you my address.”

 

*   *   *

 

Connor finds himself on Hank’s doorstep. He pauses to take in the weirdness of the situation. The street is dark and empty, save for the warm glow of light spilling from streetlamps and un-shuttered windows. Compulsively, he runs a hand down the front of his tie, and then his buttoned shirt, trying to smooth out any wrinkles. He raises his hand and knocks.

A bark sounds out from inside the house, and then the door is opening, and there is Hank, clad in sweatpants and a well-loved t-shirt. The print on the front of it is faded, but Connor can make out the words “SHRIMP HEAVEN NOW.” Hank’s got his silver-grey hair tied up in a messy bun on the top of his head. Connor likes the look of him immediately. There is something soft about him that makes Connor want to fall into him.

“Hello, Hank,” he says.

“What the fuck?” Hank says.

He smiles, because that is how you let humans know that you mean no harm. “I am Connor. We spoke earlier—”

“Christ, kid—sorry, fuck, Connor—I know who you are. I just didn’t think you’d actually show up.” Hank scrubs at his mouth, and Connor finds the rasping sound of his beard incredibly pleasing.

Connor hears a whining sound, and then a massive Saint Bernard is pushing its way past Hank’s legs to snuffle at Connor’s shoes.

“Sumo!” Hank snaps. Sumo looks up at him and then up at Connor, beseechingly.

“Hey Sumo,” Connor says, crouching down to offer Sumo one of his hands to sniff. When Sumo gives his hand an obliging lick, Connor obediently begins to pet him.

“Sorry,” Hank mutters. “I shoulda warned you that I have a big-ass dog.”

“That’s all right, Hank. I like dogs. They’re adept at defusing tension social situations, I have often found.”

“Ha!” Hank laughs, the sound staccato but no less sincere for it. “Is that your way of saying this is awkward as fuck? ‘Cause I gotta say—”

Connor abruptly stands up, Sumo whining at the loss of pets. “May I come in? Hank?”

“Yeah, sure. Wouldn’t want you to freeze out there. Come on in.”

“I am an android, Hank. I do not experience cold the same as humans. Unless you are speaking literally about me freezing. In that case, I should tell you—”

Hank’s big hands descend and settle on Connor’s shoulders. “It’s an expression,” he says firmly. “Now get your ass in here and help me pick out what movie you want to watch.”

“Yes, Sir,” Connor says. He is delighted when Hank blushes at that.

“Take a seat,” Hank says gruffly, patting the couch. “Make yourself at home.”

Connor sits gingerly down on Hank’s dilapidated sofa, as Hank disappears into another room, Sumo trailing after him. “You want anything?” Hank calls, and Connor realizes that Hank must be in the kitchen.

“No, thank you!” he shouts.

Hank returns with an opened longneck. “Here,” he says, handing Connor a biscuit, before flinging his weight down onto the couch next to him.

Puzzled, Connor examines the biscuit. Just as he lifts it to his mouth to lick it, Hank shoots him a weirded-out look. Connor immediately freezes. “It’s a dog treat,” Hank says. “For Sumo.”

“Oh,” Connor says, feeling a bit stupid and foolish. The protocol for embarrassment fires, and his facial receptors simulate a blue blush.

“I figured,” Hank says gruffly, the shells of his ears turning red, “if you like dogs, you might rather cuddle Sumo than uh”—he gestures dismissively to his body—“me, you know? Anyways. Feed Sumo and he’ll be your best friend for life.” 

Sumo gets up from his plush bed in the corner to pad over to them. He sits in front of Connor and looks up at the treat beseechingly. He drools. Connor is _delighted._

“Yeah, yeah, you poor starved mutt,” Hank mutters. 

Connor extends the treat to him, and Sumo delicately takes it from him, before making an absolute mess of crumbs and slobber. Connor finds himself smiling, delighted by the exchange. “Is he allowed to sit on the couch?” he asks Hank without looking away from Sumo.

“Try stopping him,” Hank scoffs. “Sumo! Up, boy!”

Sumo jumps up between Connor and the armrest of the couch. He circles for a bit before settling down, with his snout resting on Connor’s thighs. Connor cards his fingers through the dog’s fur.

“Do you actually want to watch a movie?” Hank asks. “Or did you suggest that because you figured I’d be more at ease if we watched a movie.”

Connor opens his mouth to lie and then shuts it. He doesn’t know what to say.

“Talk to me, sweetheart,” Hank says, and Connor caves.

“The—the second one.”

“Okay.” Hank doesn’t look weirded out, but he looks Connor over, seemingly searching for something. Is this what humans feel like when androids scan them for information? “Was there another reason?”

The words tumble out of Connor. “I—I wanted to be touched. I am attracted to you, but sex seemed to be off the table. This seemed like the most normal way to ask to be touched platonically.”

“Makes sense,” Hank muses.

“But I do—enjoy watching movies. It is not an activity that I often engage in, but. I find it to be pleasurable when I do.”

“All right, all right, all right,” Hank says. “You got any preference in movies?”

“No.”

“Ever seen _The Mummy_?”

“Which one? The 1932 original or the 1999 remake or the 2017—”

“The one with Rachel Weisz and Brendan Fraser,” Hank interjected. “And we pretend the Tom Cruise one doesn’t exist, okay?”

“Why?”

“Because it doesn’t belong in the _Mummy_ canon.”

“Understood. So we will be watching the 199—”

“Yes. Now shut up, the movie’s starting,” Hank says, as he cues it up on the television screen and horns blare through the sound system. 

Connor eases himself closer to Hank as the movie plays. Hank displays no outward appearance of noticing, but his heart speeds up every time Connor inches closer.

“C’mere,” he says finally, and Connor goes happily into his arms. He noses at Hank’s neck, unable to resist a taste of his day-old sweat. Hank twitches when Connor kitten-licks him, but doesn’t comment. “Is this what you wanted?” Hank asks. “Or did you have something else in mind?”

“Something else,” Connor agrees, and then proceeds to push him back into the corner of the couch so that Connor can settle himself in the vee of Hank’s legs, his back to Hank’s front. He leans back against Hank’s chest, pleased with their new positions. One of Hank’s hands drop down onto Connor’s chest. Connor arches into the contact, much like a cat chasing the sun.

“This good?” 

“Yes,” Connor slurs, wiggling against him.

Hank settles his arms around him, his right hand rubbing idle circles against Connor’s torso. Connor feels floaty, in a way he only does during energetic, brutal sex. He drifts, and barely pays attention to the movie, lost to the influx of sensations. Hank’s arms are heavy weights against him. He cannot remember the last time he felt this content, this at home in his android form. He catalogues the rasp of Hank’s calluses against his shirt, the rumble against his synthetic spine when Hank chuckles at a gag on screen, the scrape of Hank’s beard against the nape of his neck.

It’s not enough.

“You all right, sweetheart?” Hank murmurs into the delicate shell of Connor’s ear. “This what you needed?”

Connor hums an affirmative. He’s melting under Hank’s beautiful hands. The only thing that would make this better would be if—“Can I take off my shirt?”

Hank chuckles. “You want some help with that or should I sit back and enjoy the show?”

Connor covers one of Hank’s hands with his own, and draws it to the buttons of his shirt. “Please,” he says.

“You’re the boss,” Hank says, stroking his thumb along the seam. He tugs on Connor’s tie with his other hand. “Should I start with this? Or do you have a thing for ties?”

Connor laughs, his receptors suffused with warmth. He turns his head so he can look up at Hank, and he can’t help himself—he has to twist in Hank’s arms so he can lean in and kiss him. Hank grunts with surprise and Connor swallows the noise. Cupping the joint of Hank’s jaw in his hand, Connor rubs his thumb against the coarse bristles of Hank’s beard. Hank is panting, staring at Connor with what amount to surprise and desire; Connor can feel Hank’s cock thickening against him, and it’s a heady, addictive, powerful sensation that Connor wants to chase. He shifts to straddle Hank so that he can kiss him again, but deeper this time. He licks the seam of Hank’s lips, seeking entrance, which Hank cedes to him immediately with a groan. Information explodes along the sensors in his mouth. He can taste the beer Hank was drinking, and analyze the food he ate earlier. Higher functions shut down as Connor gets sucked into the here and now, into the taste and sensation of kissing Hank.

Hank’s chapped bottom lip splits from the pressure. Connor tests the blood with his synthetic tongue. Information bursts across his sensors—high cholesterol, deficient in vitamins C and D, low in iron, low levels of serotonin. Background processes begin to shut down as his attention narrows in on Hank and Hank’s mouth.

A hand, palm pressed to Connor’s chest, pushes him back, giving Hank space enough to breathe. Space enough that Connor cannot blindly seek his lips. It is too much. Too much.

“Sweetheart,” Hank says, his pupils blown, his cheeks ruddy, his mouth a mess of blood and synthetic saliva.

Connor whines. Hank starts at the sound.

“Jesus, fuck,” Hank says. “You sound like dial-up internet. Fuckin’ uncanny.”

Connor searches the internet for the reference, and when he finds it, distaste makes his lips twitch. “Please, Hank, I would never be so primitive.”

Hank laughs, a deep belly laugh that makes his stomach jiggle. Unbidden, one of Connor’s hands flutters down to the generous curve of his stomach. He stares as he presses against it, enthralled.

“Havin’ fun down there?” Hank says. His eyebrows are raised, and he looks wholly unimpressed.

Connor does not understand Hank’s utterance. “Yes, sir,” he says, to which Hank groans. “You are,” Connor perseveres, “so big—”

“Big!” Hank snorts. “That what the kids are calling it these days?”

Connor cocks his head. “I . . . do not understand.”

“I’m fat, kid. Y’can say it. It’s not a dirty word.”

“Yes. You are fat. It is one of the things that drew me to you.”

“Jesus Christ, Connor!”

“You said—”

“I know what I said. You some kind of chubby chaser?”

“Chubby . . . chaser.” Connor’s brows draw together in confusion, but in less than a second he has found the answer in his neural network. “No, that is . . . inaccurate. It is true—I am attracted to your bulk.” Hank studies him as he searches for the right words. “I saw you and I thought of how nice it would be for you to be on top of me. You are . . . so much bigger than I am. It’s . . . intoxicating. Hank. You are—”

“Okay, sweetheart,” Hank says, before clearing his throat.

“I know I said we were not going to engage in intercourse, but—”

Hank covered his face with his hand and groaned loudly. “ _Connor!_ ”

“Yes?”

“Are you trying to kill me?”

“That is not my intention, sir.”

Another groan.

“Hank?”

“You sure about that?”

“I don’t—”

Hank waves him off. Connor sits up, dissatisfied with the lack of physical contact “I can’t believe I’m saying this,” Hank says, “but maybe we should slow things down.”

“Can we finish the movie at least?”

“Yeah, sweetheart. We can even watch the second one.”

Connor smiles and lays back down on top of Hank. “You didn’t even take off my shirt,” he grumbles.

“Have mercy on an old man.”

Connor presses his smile into Hank’s chest, as Hank strokes his hair absentmindedly. He cues up the sequel when the first one finishes, and he makes it 30 minutes into it before he starts snoring. For a moment, Connor wishes he was human, just so he’d have an excuse to fall asleep in Hank’s arms. He stays till the end of the movie, and then he gets up as slowly as possible, so as not to disturb Hank. His thirium pump beats a little harder at the sight of Hank snoring with his mouth open, Sumo snuffling in time with him. He does not have a heart, but it aches. He is a mess of want; he wants to stay, but he should not. He wants Hank to press him down onto his bed, chest to chest, human skin to bare chassis. He wants and he aches and he wants. His code sings a siren’s song for Hank. He hopes Hank still wants him in the morning. 

As he leaves, he sends a quick message to Hank’s phone: _Thank you for the movie night. I hope we can watch another sometime._


End file.
